Philosophical Fares
by nothing-rhymes-with-ianto
Summary: It's not very often that Enjolras has conversations this bizarre with his customers. Or that he finds himself so unwillingly consumed with random strangers.


Enjolras drums his fingers on the dashboard. The streets are quiet. Most sensible people have gone home for the night, and it's not time yet for the hardcore drunks to be tossed out of the pubs and onto the pavement. Enjolras drifts, pulling his cab in and out of parking spaces as he coasts up and down the street. The more popular bar-hopping avenues are the most active places at this time of night, so this is where he goes.

And yet, the people milling about don't give his cab a second glance, already getting into their own cars or electing to walk home. He zones out, wishing he were allowed to bring his homework from university to work with him. He gets bored waiting for a fare at this time of night, making him twitchy and irritable, even at the drunken customers who do little but mumble an address and stare out the window until he pulls up to the curb. Lulls like these make his mind itch to read a political theory text, or work on a philosophy paper. But he has none, so he lets himself drift.

A knock on the window makes him jump, and he barely manages to peel himself off the ceiling before a skinny pile of pale flesh and dark hair flops into his back seat, head unsteady. Enjolras eyes the rolling motion of his neck warily.

"Are you going to vomit in my car?"

"No, I'm fine." The man reeks of booze and cigarettes, like so many of his fares, and his eyes are bright with drink, but he is alert, and looking at Enjolras with a sharp gaze.

"Where to, then?"

The address isn't close, but it's not outside of the range he can reach before he's finally off for the night. He pulls away from the curb and into the sparse flickers of traffic.

"How are you doing tonight?" Enjolras asks, falling into the stupid generic courteous conversation starter that's been drilled into him.

"Fine." The man says, head rolling against the back of the seat to look out the window. Many of his passengers do that; one word answers, then falling silent, body language screaming _leave me alone!_ Enjolras is okay with that. It's late.

They are quiet for a while. The man is watching the lights go past, his face blank, but Enjolras can see his eyes are anything but dull. He forces his gaze back to the road, the depth of the lateness making the streetlights a headachy glare across his vision. At the next stoplight, he rubs his eyes, sparks dancing up against the pressure of his fingers.

"Do you think it's possible to hate humanity's existence and need it at the same time?"

"What?"

The man's head rolls up from its lolling position. Sharp blue eyes pin his in the mirror.

"Do you think it's possible to hate humanity's existence and need it at the same time?" The man repeats, slower this time, as if he's talking to a child.

Enjolras frowns. This is already the strangest thing a person has asked him, and he's a cabbie. But he's been taught to always indulge the customer. Usually that means playing N-Dubz at obnoxiously high decibels, not answering philosophical questions at two in the morning. The man is looking at him expectantly. The question was abrupt, and Enjolras has had no time to think about it, but the man obviously wants an answer. The light turns green and he presses a foot to the gas.

"I think people hate aspects of humanity, but not all of it. You can hate parts of humanity and still need it and love it. Most people do. People make each other great. They offset each other and make humanity the diverse and wonderful thing that it is. The disliking of some aspects is just part of that diversity."

The man waves him away, bony wrist exposed from the sleeve of his leather jacket. Enjolras is reminded of a blackbird, something thin and fragile and dark. "I don't mean in that sugar-coated way, where some guy hates war but loves the way people band together to get things done. I mean like—"

The man sighs, and splays his hands across the back of Enjolras' seat, to his right. He chances a glance backward. The fingers are long and pale, knuckles knobby, nails bitten down. There's blue paint in the creases of the skin and in between his index and middle finger of his right hand. Enjolras looks back at the road.

"I mean, it's like this. Like Sartre. Hell is people. Well, he said hell is other people. And he meant certain other people, like with personalities that clash or opinions that don't match up. But it's like that. Hell is people. We need people to sustain our lives. According to psychology, we need interaction to stay stable and sane, we need other people in order to be aware of our sense of autonomy and self within the masses. But humanity is bound to hurt us. People fight, people look down on each other, judge each other, or hurt each other. People are shits. People who think they're wonderful are the worst, because they don't think of anything else. People destroy each other. And if they don't, they slowly destroy themselves while they think about their worst qualities. And then they go off the deep end or end up in a bar or an alley or something. Either they ruin you or you ruin you."

The man sits back with a quiet exhale, leaving one hand up on the back of Enjolras's seat. His eyes are shadowed by hair, but Enjolras can see the pessimistic slope of his mouth, pale pink against the white of his face. It seems as though that mouth has never truly smiled.

"That's—grim," is all Enjolras can say. The man hums, seemingly in agreement. Enjolras falls silent. But the thought doesn't sit well with him. "What about the good things people do all the time? The non-profits, the charities, all the acts of selflessness? Don't you take that into account? People can be good. People are often good."

"Yeah, but it'll always be cancelled out by the shitty things humans do."

"Good won't come out of good? That's a ridiculous thought. I mean, I'm not saying I believe in karma or anything, but you can't deny that one person doing something nice will most likely trigger others to do nice things. And one person taking a stand will convince others to join him. There's a wave pattern, and those small acts will only get larger and grander. Acts of kindness or goodness can change the world."

"And then someone will do something awful and the cycle or chain or whatever will be broken. The world will be shit again. And that activist will be stamped out by the media out-debating him, or the government silencing him, or the police bashing his head in."

"That is just _so_ grim." Enjolras shakes his head. "And with all due respect, it's also bullshit."

"Ah? How so?" There is interest in the words that are only slightly mocking, as if the man genuinely wants to know the other side of the coin.

"People are good, humanity is good. Even if an individual or a group's actions are cut short by violence or oppression, that will only anger the people more and incite them to action. The belief of the people will be strengthened so they will want to rise above their oppressors. It will give them power over the people who keep them down. And that power isn't going to dissipate if they get knocked down, either." Enjolras can feel a flush rising on his neck. This is a subject he's debated before in his philosophy classes. It's something he knows in and out, but this is the first time he honestly feels challenged. This is the first time the question doesn't seem rhetorical, or theoretical. "It's better to voice your opinion, your dissent, your outrage, and be struck down for it in order to inspire others than it is to sit silently under the thumb of the people holding you back. The more people dissent, the more the oppressed will want to rise, _will_ rise, will overcome. Because that's what humanity does. People are good, and good will come out of their actions. The intrinsic value of a human being is greater than you think, no matter who they are."

"And what about when they're cut down?"

"Like I said, their death or downfall or whatever will make everyone else angrier. It will just incite them to rise up together. Creation and destruction go hand in hand. It's not all death and pushing people down. It's not always the way you see it."

"The way I see it's not wrong. Life's pretty grim. People suck." The man's face is lit by another car's passing lights. There are bags under his eyes, and marks bitten into his lower lip. "That's the way things are."

There is a beat of silence between them, pulling Enjolras' eyes back to the road. The streetlamps strain to push their light out against the sucking black of the sky. Enjolras blinks against their harsh glare.

Fingers drum on the steering wheel. An answering drum is a quiet rhythm on the back of the seat. "Do you have any faith in humanity? Or anything?"

"Humanity, not so much. And seeing the state of the world now, and really, how it's always been, I'd say if there is a god, he or she or what-the-fuck-ever doesn't care. So I guess, no, I don't believe in anything. Not really. Everything can be doubted."

"Even your own existence? Even your own value?"

The man scoffs, but his fingers curl over the seat instead of pulling away. Enjolras watches the movement out of the corner of his eye. Lines of light slide over them both from the lamps outside. "If I didn't doubt my own existence and value, do you really think I'd be here? I'd probably be dead. But since, as far as I can tell, being drunk is better than being dead, I've decided to go that route."

_Alcoholic,_ Enjolras thinks. _He's a nihilist; it's not surprising._ He frowns, and can't help voicing his opinion, no matter how insulting it might be. "That's the easy way out."

He looks to the mirror to see the shake of a head and lips twisting into a cynical smirk. "Ah—No. _Death_ is the easy way out. There isn't any relief from death. You don't sober up from death, you don't have varying stages or kinds of death. If you're dead, you're dead. Being drunk is not the easy way out, believe me. Our conversation is proof of that."

Enjolras has to concede his point, and nods slightly. "Okay, but still. It's the coward's way out, at least. Too cowardly to die, but too scared to face life. Hiding under a filter of alcohol is no way to go about living." He gestures to the black sky in front of him, never as deep as it could be with the city's glare of lights all around, but dark enough to swallow those lights whole. "It's like hiding in a hole in the dark and not coming out to see what's going on or to join in the living. It's a terrible sort of limbo."

The man laughs darkly, drumming his fingers against the seat twice before pulling his hand into a fist, the tendons straining against his skin as if trying to leave. His mouth is twisted, his eyes a strangely focused glint in the dark.

"If you had to deal with some of the shit I've been through, you'd be a coward, too. It's not like I'm terrified of life for no reason." The heavy sarcasm drops off suddenly, and the fingers flatten out again, stretching the splotch of blue paint. "I don't reject and doubt everything without experience on the matter in the first place. It really does take quite a bit of work to get where I am now."

The way he says _work_ makes Enjolras think of dark, painful things, and when he meets the eyes in the mirror, he can almost see them writhing there. The man looks at him challengingly, and Enjolras doesn't look away until he has to in order to drive. There's a little sigh behind him, and when he peers into the mirror again, the man is staring at some point near his right ear, eyes distant but not hollow.

They pull up in front of a shabby block of flats. The lights here are dim, their glow barely even pressing against the night. The man dips a hand in his pocket for the fare, and their fingers brush together as Enjolras takes the money, his tanned skin against the man's moon-white fingers.

"Uh—Do you want help up?" Enjolras asks, something he's never done before. But there's a connection now that he doesn't want to break.

The man blinks at him, and Enjolras feels something like embarrassment in his gut. The dark curls bounce and brush sharp cheekbones as the man shakes his head. "No, it's all right. Thanks."

"Anytime," he answers distantly. The man unfolds himself from the car, looking for all the world like a bat stretching its wings from sleep. Enjolras watches the long limbs clothed in black ascend the steps in a manner far more graceful than he expected from someone so drunk and push inside the entryway to the complex. It's almost three. He turns off his On Duty light. Looking up again at the flats, he sees a light bloom on in an upper window. He pulls away from the curb before the man can look out and notice him still waiting.

Enjolras lets himself into his flat, contemplates eating dinner, and flops face-first onto his bed instead. He wriggles out of his jeans and uniform shirt without turning over and tosses them in the general direction of the laundry hamper. "Doubt everything," he mutters, scoffing at the idea. But the dark voice and even darker eyes come back to him, glaring and skeptical. He rolls his eyes and gropes for his Ipod without picking his face up from the pillow. He finds a playlist of mellow music and plugs his headphones in, turning it on. He has classes in less than six hours. Sleep beckons him.

The next day he feels a little groggy, but mostly all right. Something niggles in the back of his head, but he has classes to get to, so he ignores it. Tries to ignore it. His brain feels strangely out of synch today. He decides it's lack of sleep. He needs a day off, badly.

Courfeyrac pokes his shoulder in the middle of class. "Dude. What's up with you?"

"Huh?"

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. "Exactly."

"What?"

"You've been totally spaced out all day. You're in another world. I've never seen you like this."

"Sorry. Just distracted." The thought of just _why_ he's distracted is confusing, and he can't seem to pin it down. He rubs his knuckles against the desk, then against his chin.

Enjolras feels consumed. Disjointed thoughts swirl through his head, voicing doubts he's never noticed before. He cannot get the man, the conversation, out of his head, and he doesn't even know why. He misses questions in his ethics class, and for once doesn't mind too much. He is quiet, doesn't participate like usual. His classmates seem confused, frowning at him in distant sort of concern. His political theory professor worriedly asks him after class if everything's okay. His chest feels tight and strained and he doesn't_ like_ this feeling, doesn't appreciate the way it seems to have interrupted his routine and filled his head with buzzing little thoughts.

All he can think of are those eyes, staring into him, like they can see every one of his doubts. Somehow, that makes Enjolras want to take those doubts and eradicate them, stamp them out until he's sure of his ideals and sure of his motivations, so he can show the man that humans _can_ stand up, that they _can_ be good and light and all those other things. So he can prove that people can change, and that things can happen if only people care enough to do something. He doesn't even know the man's name and he's fascinated, captivated; he wants nothing more than to convince him to _believe_. It's frustrating, and he shoves the thoughts away as best he can because, really, why should a random stranger be bothering him so much?

He drives randomly through the city, looking for fares, driving through the dark. He doesn't notice until he feels a strange sense of déjà vu that he's driving down the avenues populated by bars and pubs, and briefly slipping past that dark, dingy street with the bad lamps when he can't find customers. Dark hair and cynical eyes bloom in his mind and he forces them away with a scoff. This isn't right. The man was a nobody, much as Enjolras wishes to shake him until he understands. He will not let himself be distracted by a bizarre philosophical conversation that simply challenged his beliefs.

When he realizes what he's doing, he stops. He deliberately chooses streets that are empty of bars and pubs. He does not drive past that dull block of flats. But the man's stupid pale face follows him; he looks back to the empty seats behind, expecting eyes that see everything and are sure of nothing. He shoves the image away and deliberately ignores it as he ferries customers to their destinations, making stupid cabbie small talk to distract himself.

He forces himself to focus on his classes, his schoolwork, and goes back to participating fully. He sees his teachers' shoulders relax. He manages to forget about the man as he is swamped with an essay for political theory and an essay for philosophy of ethics, and buckles down to finish them as quickly as he can, since he's not allowed to bring his homework with him in his cab.

He's idling at a curb, zoned out and trying to think of a concise-enough conclusion for his politics paper, when he starts to rain. He cranks up the heater, grateful to be stuck in his car, and watches people hurry along in the downpour, glancing at his cab and patting their pockets and hurrying on. He stays where he is because someone is bound to come along. He puts his elbow on the steering wheel and his chin in his hand, determined to mentally hash out the end of this essay before he has to go home for the night.

"Shit shit shit shit!" The door is wrenched open and someone climbs into the backseat with a litany of curses. Enjolras looks behind him. Now-soggy shaggy black curls obscure a pale face with stubble shading the jaw. Dark-clad limbs fold themselves into the seat, heavy with rainwater. The address stated with frustration is a familiar one.

"You!"

The man looks up, and his face brightens minutely. "Oh, hello again, cabbie. I remember you. The pissy cabbie. You're the only one who actually answered my drunken philosophical rants. Most people either say I'm too drunk or they're too sober to be having a conversation like that. But you were nice, cabbie. Sort of."

"My name's Enjolras," Enjolras tells him, then pushes ahead before he can make his brain tell his mouth to stop moving. "You messed with my head!"

"I did what?"

"You messed with me! I can't stop thinking about our conversation. All I want to do is—is throttle you!" He hits the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. Frustration has built up in his chest at the distraction, the doubts, the mysterious heaviness that's been stuck there since they met. "Or make you understand that people have positive intrinsic value and that people are good and fair and equal and that not all everyone lives in a dark cynical world like you and I just want you to _get_ that!"

The confused frown that had graced the man's features in now replaced with challenging grin, a twist to it reminiscent of his cynical arguments from the other night. "So prove it to me. Convince me. You seem to have an excess of faith where I have none, so enlighten me. _Illuminate_ me."

"You can't just look at the world and say everything is awful. I know you're going to say the same about looking at the world and saying everything is good. I know. But shitty things happen, and humans are the only creatures out there that have the ability to make something good out of those shitty things, to raise awareness or rise above it or use it as an inspiration to reach out and help others. Humans don't roll over and die when something bad happens. They climb out of the pit, whether they pull themselves up alone or stand on each other's shoulders until one person can get to the top and help everyone else up. Humans are the ultimate survivors."

Enjolras stops, expecting a retort, a question, a scoff, but when he looks back, the man is peering at him strangely, and though his mouth is set in a hard line, he nods for him to continue.

"And humans have the capacity to love. Other animals do too, but it's only in humans that love overrides other instincts, makes people irrational and beautiful. It gives us reason to act and to do what makes us happy, because we love it or because we love someone. People get messed up by society or their circumstances, but underneath all that, there is goodness. They can find something to love, or they can stand up and shake off their oppression." He glances backward. The man is still staring at him, at the side of his face, but his expression has softened from the hardened look of before into something more rapt. "They can be taught to see goodness and can be taught to pull themselves out of negativity. Humans are the only creatures that can look at their lives and decide to change the way they act and think and shape their existence more positively. They can learn to live together, to coexist in harmony. Even people who don't like each other can be civil and peaceable."

Blue eyes look back at him, a skeptical but intrigued glint in them. "So you're just saying like the Beatles song, 'all we need is love'?"

Enjolras smiles a little at the reference. "Well, no. Love is important. It's a basic human emotion that empowers a lot of other emotions and actions. It comes in many different forms besides the romantic love we think of, and those other forms are often far more important. But we also need things like human courage and ambition, the need for protection and peace and safety. We need the ability to look at people as a whole, instead of just a few aspects, we need to see the bigger picture of an individual. Humans need a lot of things, but the varying kinds of love are the base that holds everything up. It's passion and adoration and determination and parental love and romantic love and friendship that empowers humans in a way that other creatures are not empowered."

They stop in front of the apartment complex as the man opens his mouth to reply. Enjolras gives him an apologetic look and tells him the fare. The man sighs and digs in his pocket. Enjolras looks down and fiddles with his nametag hanging on the dash. What sort of goodbye do you say to a stranger you've just had a philosophical conversation with in your cab?

Long fingers give him the money in a wad. Their hands touch, and there is a spark in the man's eye. "Thanks."

"Anytime," Enjolras nods in response, voice more confident this time. The man gives him a little smirk to let him know he understands and opens the car door.

Enjolras watches the man walk away, his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. He waits until he sees a light bloom in the window. A silhouette darkens the curtains, head bowed. He looks at the crumpled bundle of cash in his hand. A bit of white catches his eye and he pulls it out. An old bar receipt, must've gotten mixed up in his pocket. Instead of throwing it away, he flattens it out. Written on the back is a name, a number, and _Maybe I could start believing in some things, if you showed me_. Enjolras feels a smile tugging the corner of his mouth, and digs his phone out of his pocket.


End file.
